Are We extinct yet. Who owns the map. May I look. Where is my claim. Is my history verifiable. Have I included the memory of the animals. The animals' memories. Are they still here. Are we alone. Look the filaments appear. Of memories. Whose? What was Land like. Did it move through us. Something says nonstop are you here are your ancestors real do you have a body do you have yr self in mind can you see yr hands--have you broken it the thread--try to feel the pull of the other end--says make sure both ends are alive when u pull to try to re-enter here. A raven has arrived while I am taking all this down. In- corporate me it squawks. It hops closer along the stone wall. Do you remember despair its coming closer says. I look at him. Do not hurry I say but he is tapping the stone all over with his beak. His coat is sun. He looks carefully at me bc I am so still & eager. He sees my loneliness. Cicadas begin. Is this a real encounter I ask. Of the old kind. When there were ravens. No says the light. You are barely here. The raven left a long time ago. It is traveling its thread its skyroad forever now, it knows the current through the cicadas, which you cannot hear but which close over u now. But is it not here I ask looking up through my stanzas. Did it not reach me as it came in. Did it not enter here at stanza eight--& where does it go now when it goes away again, when I tell you the raven is golden, when I tell you it lifted & went, & it went. To 2040 With whom am I speaking, are you one or many, what are u, are u, do I make my- self clear, is this which we called speech what u use, are u a living form such as the form I inhabit now letting it speak me. My window tonight casts light onto the snow, I cast from my eye a glance, a touchless touch, tossed out to capture this shine we cast. I pull it in, into my memory store. I have lost track. It's snowed for more than we'd imagined at the start, it began, unexpectedly it began, it did not really cease again, it slowed some days, melted as it fell on some, days passed thru snow rather than snow thru days. Did it remember us at some point, when we cld hold no more memory of day in mind. We had started with minutes. We had loved their fullness--cells flowing thru this body of time--purging all but their passing thru us & our letting them flow-through. But then they stopped being different. You couldn't tell one minute from another, or an hour, day, year. Years pulled their lengths through us like long wet strings, and we hung onto them, they strung us a ways along, & up, they kept us from drowning in the terrible minutes. Once I sat down & cried as I watched the sun come up & the flakes falling as if not noticing the movmt from night into day--at least let there be difference--otherwise whatever remains of desire will go--otherwise there will be nothing I have saved--nothing to save--make day flower as a piece of time again--it's cold--dream is a hard thing to catch sight of--I said dream -- I said dream what is it I said--I said it because just now, looking out, it's a reflex, I saw, as if a stain or residue of scent, a yellowing on snow in patches, long thin stretches, like a very cold face remembering something it wishes to forget, I saw a poverty touched by a lessening of poverty, a memory of a chime on cold air, a strange flash as of birdshadow--so fast--though there are no birds any longer--longer--I would have said ever again --but then there it is that word I dread so--again--here where we have none of it or nothing but, we can't tell--but it was the so-rare poking-through of the strange sun we have--& for an instant it gave us shadows--branches that do not move moved--against snow, wall, pane, against trunk, intertwining & trembling inside other shadows, & all was alive. You feel the suddenly . You feel like an itch a thing you used to call so casually yr inwardness , u feel yr looking at the knotting, the undoings of nothing in nothing, gorgeous--cursive golds what wld u say now, say it now, do it now yr in- wardness thinks as you feel yr greed in yr eyes yr hands yr soul--how u drink what used to be just end-of-day, low light, any winter afternoon. Give me a day back. Give the slowing of dusk into gloaming. Give me a night. Shut something down, close your fist over it, hold us tight, then unclench unfurl slowly release us again into light. Give us a dawn. Give us the one note without warning where one call one cry breaks & darkness releases a branch & if you wait the whole crown then the body will be unhidden and handed over into yr sight. The sight of the watching human. I turn back-in as the accident the release of light is fixed & we are back in snowlight now. How far forward r we. We used to speak of future. Speech had a different function then. It's hard to know when to break the silence now. It has something to do with the absence of night. We never knew we shld feel the rotation. We hurled forward. Yes towards death but what joy. Didn't know it was a game. Should have loved the hurtling, the losses, the hurry dilation delay fear surprise fury. We miss the sense of abandonment yes we miss homesickness. We miss the vector in any direction. You back there are you back there listening to me am I audible what do I do to make this audible don't forget to ask when your time comes for presence . Do not ask for forgiveness. Do not ask for youth. They will offer them up pristine and innocent. Do not listen. Do not make the silly mistake do not ask for eternity. Look behind you, turn, look down as much as you can, notice all that disappears. Place as much as you can in your heart. It doesn't matter what's in your mind. When you come here all you will be left w/is a heart they spill out, a tin cup, they count up what you put in it, they shake it into a small burlap sack, they weigh it, they tie it up, they do not give it back. It is then you are placed at your window to watch. Then the snow begins. You are told to remember the message u accidentally forgot to attend to. It is among the things they sequestered when they measured u. You must sit now and recall the message. The one put in yr hand but not opened. You were busy. There was little time. Little notice was given. Its ink is new. The fold in its paper single & crisp. The words glow in their crease. The unread shines with its particular shine. It has been weighed. It was put to yr account & burned. What was it, u must remember, what was yr message, what were u meant to pass on? Excerpted from To 2040 by Jorie Graham All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
